"I say!" protested Sir Edmud Fitzwilliam, rising from his seat with obvious indignation. "What right have you to drag my daughter's name into this sordid affair?"
"The right," said a clear, trembling voice from the back of the church, "of someone who seeks to prevent another woman fromsuffering as I did."
All eyes turned to the delicate young woman who had accompanied Devon's party, and Arabella felt her heart clench with sympathy as she recognized the courage it must have taken for Miss Catherine to appear in such a public forum.
"Catherine," Whitmore said with a sickly smile, "my dear girl, surely you do not mean to participate in this... theatrical display? What passed between us was merely a lovers' quarrel, nothing more."
"What passed between us," Miss Catherine replied with growing strength, "were months of systematic cruelty designed to break my spirit and render me completely dependent upon your approval. You flew into violent rages when you were angry, demanded that I cut all connections with my family and friends, and treated me with such public rudeness that my own father felt compelled to intervene."
The young woman's voice grew stronger with each word, as though the act of finally speaking her truth was liberating her from years of enforced silence.
"You told me that no other man would ever want me, that I was fortunate to have secured your interest despite my inadequacies. You made me believe that I deserved nothing better than the scraps of affection you occasionally chose to provide."
"This is ridiculous," Whitmore protested, though his voice lacked its earlier confidence. "The ravings of a hysterical female..."
"Are they indeed?" Devon's voice carried a note of deadly menace that made several members of the congregation shift nervously in their seats. "Then perhaps you can explain the letters you wrote to Miss Catherine after her family broke your betrothal? Letters in which you threatened to ruin her reputation if she ever spoke of your courtship to anyone?"
The barrister stepped forward with a collection of documents that he displayed with professional efficiency. "I have here copies of correspondence sent by Mr. Whitmore to Miss Fitzwilliam, correspondence that clearly demonstrates a pattern of intimidation and emotional manipulation that continued long after their betrothal was terminated."
Whitmore's face had gone completely white, and Arabella saw his hands tremble as he realized the extent of his exposure. "Those letters were private; you had no right...
"We had every right," Devon interrupted with cold satisfaction, "to investigate the character of a man seeking to marry a lady under my protection. A man whose debts and desperation made him willing to pursue any woman with a modest fortune, regardless of his feelings for her."
"Protection?" Whitmore's voice rose to a near shriek. "What manner of protection have you provided, Your Grace? Everyone in London knows that she has been living in your house as your..."
The insult died on his lips as Devon moved with lightning speed, seizing Whitmore by the throat and lifting him until his feet barely touched the ground.
"Complete that sentence," Devon said with lethal quiet, "and it will be the last words you ever speak."
"Devon, no!" Arabella cried out, her voice carrying clearly through the stunned silence of the church. "He is not worth the stain upon your honour."
For a moment, Devon's grip tightened, and she could see the effort it cost him to restrain his violent impulses. Then, with visible control, he released Whitmore and stepped back, though his eyes remained fixed upon his opponent with predatory intensity.
"You are quite right, my dear," he said quietly, the endearment falling from his lips with natural ease despite their public setting. "Some vermin are better dealt with through exposure than violence."
"Your dear?" Lady Huxley's voice cut through the tension with obvious relish. "How very... illuminating, Your Grace."
"Indeed, it is," Devon replied with the sort of smile that had once made him legendary in society drawing rooms. "For I have the honour to announce that Miss Greystone has consented to become my wife, should she find herself unexpectedly available."
The pronouncement sent shock waves through the congregation, whilst Arabella felt her heart stop beating entirely. Had she heard correctly? Was Devon truly offering to marry her here, now, before all of London society?
"Your wife?" she whispered, scarcely daring to believe whather ears had told her.
"If you will have me," Devon said quietly, his voice pitched for her alone despite the fascinated attention of hundreds of witnesses. "I know I have caused you pain through my deception, but it was necessary to gather the evidence that would free you from this entanglement. I could not bear to see you bound to a man who would destroy everything beautiful about your nature."
"You... you knew?" Arabella managed, her mind struggling to process the implications of his revelation. "All along, you were planning this?"
"From the moment I received confirmation of his true character," Devon confirmed gently. "Every cruel word I spoke yesterday was designed to prevent you from hoping, to spare you the pain of disappointment should my plan fail. Can you forgive me for the deception?"
Before Arabella could respond, Whitmore rallied for one final attack, his face contorted with rage and desperation.
"This is all very touching," he snarled, "but it changes nothing. Miss Greystone is contracted to marry me, and I will not release her from that obligation without compensation for the expenses I have incurred and the damage to my reputation."
"Compensation?" Devon's laugh was cold with contempt. "You speak of compensation when you have been exposed as a fortune-hunter and a brute? When your debts exceed your income by thousands of pounds? When your treatment of Miss Catherine has been laid bare before all of London society?"
"I have rights..." Whitmore began, only to be interrupted by the sound of authoritative footsteps echoing through the church.
Two men in the uniform of magistrates' officers entered through the main doors, their presence commanding immediate attention from the assembled crowd.
